the sun shone every day my mother hid undergroundfed the mice, slept in wrinkled sheetsI collected freckles and my skin darkened black signals in smoke from home were smudged overseasevery word rang wrong in tin-can phonesears sent in envelopesI listened like an ant farmI listened like a boy

too close

everything seemed the samesome summertime-forever illusionmy mother just wanted sympathyI just liked the green grass and quietimpermanence inconceivable it wasalways therethere were no ghoststhe smoke was only blackto roast marshmallows on coalsI basked in tasty gooey moonlightwhile shadows ate the climbing treegraham cracker graham crackermy mother rose, finally changed her clothesand melted intohome, as it was

like ripping off band aids slowlyjust pulling off freckles with little hairsoneby oneby oneskin so white it could be moltingour dead dog sleeping in a tin can phonemy mother carves tallies in her bonesnothing’s gonenothing’s stayingsand stone foundation swayingI feel for grass beneath my feetI feel for my feetI feel like I am almost freefalling